The Only Easy Day was Yesterday
by VelourPrincess
Summary: Castiel is a CIA agent who gets captured. Dean is a Navy SEAL sent to rescue him. Together they must survive, evade, resist, and escape to make it home alive. AU Destial.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**1. **I do not claim to own any of the Supernatural characters in this story, as much as I wish I did.

**2. **I have a very limited knowledge of the military, all of which is related to the Army. So sorry if I completely butcher the Navy and CIA in the process of writing this story. Also, I know that the plot line of this story is completely unrealistic and would never really happen in the military, but that's why this is fiction!

**3. **I do not claim that the events and actions taken by individuals of various nations or groups accurately reflect the real-life actions of these groups. I have merely created a situation in which the characters can do what I want. If you want a politically-correct fantasy land, I suggest you turn around.

**4. **Later in the story there will be M/M loving in the form of Destial. Again, don't like? Don't read.

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Dean was in the gym when he first got the call, so involved in his vicious assault of the punching bag that he almost missed the vibrations of his phone. It wasn't until the phone clattered to the floor that he noticed, and even then he was tempted to ignore it. Dean's workout time was exactly that, Dean's, and anyone who'd ever dared interrupt it had never made the mistake twice. Normally he would have ignored it just like he had countless times in the past, but at that moment he had the feeling in his gut of _wrong_, the feeling that only came with years of combat experience as a highly trained combatant of the United States Navy SEALs. His fears were not alleviated when he saw the name of his unit commander, Commander Samuel Campbell, flashing on the screen.

Grabbing the phone from the floor with sweating, shaky hands he answered, "Petty Officer Winchester."

"Winchester," his commander replied gruffly, "I am calling on behalf of Captain Robert Singer. We need to see you at headquarters at exactly 0900. I know this is an extremely unusual request, but Captain Singer was looking for the best for an urgent mission and I assured him that you would be happy to oblige."

At that, Dean internally rolled his eyes. Happy to oblige? Like he had a fucking choice! Especially when a fucking _Captain_ was asking to see him specifically? He could only imagine what kind of shit he was about to step in. As the newly appointed Lead Petty Officer of his SEAL team, he should have expected this, he told himself. But then why had nobody told him that orders came directly from Captain Singer?

"I cannot stress to you enough the importance and the gravity of the current situation, Winchester. We will be expecting you at 0900. Do you have any questions?" Commander Campbell asked.

Again, Dean could feel his eyes starting to roll. He knew how this worked; even if he had all the questions in the world, it didn't matter. The question was rhetorical, always.

"Roger that sir. No questions at this time, I will see you at headquarters at 0900," Dean replied.

A quick check of his watch revealed that he only had an hour before he had to report. Mentally he cursed whatever damn assignment his team was about to receive that was so important he couldn't finish his damn workout! Wasn't physical fitness supposed to be an integral part of the military or something? Damn bureaucrats, this was probably just a dumb recon or security for some hoity-toity dignitary who thought so highly of themselves that they requested a security force of SEALs. Waste of fucking resources, in his opinion.

And with that on his mind, Dean grumbled all through his shower, an experience he normally relished. Living on a post like Coronado, surrounded by thousands of other uniforms everywhere he turned got old, fast. The only place he really felt like he could be alone or relax anymore was the shower. Pretty much every other moment of his life was spent in the company of his team members; hell, he even lived with some of them!

It's not like he could have imagined his life any other way; as soon as he was old enough to know anything, he knew he would join the military. As the oldest son of a Marine, that had always been his implied future, even though other options were available. But then his mother died in a freak house fire, from which he and his younger brother Sam barely escaped alive. His father, the brave man he was, even rushed back into the burning house trying the free Mary who had become trapped in the bedroom. It was futile, and everyone knew it; John had been lucky to emerge alive.

After that, everything went downhill for the Winchester family. John turned to alcohol to deal with the grief of losing his wife and everything associated with the life they had together. Next came the DUI and a dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps. He was jobless and drunk for most of Dean's teen years, leaving the burden of supporting the family on Dean. It was then he knew that no matter what aspirations he had, the military was the only way he would be able to support himself and Sam. In Dean's opinion, Sam got the brains of the family, and Dean was going to pay for him to go to college no matter what it took. And after what felt like a lifetime in hell, but was actually just a decade and a handful of combat deployments, Sammy was in law school.

After quickly toweling off, Dean dressed in his uniform, a blend of brown and tan pixels which immediately identified him as a member of a special operations group. Looking in the mirror, Dean cringed. He hated this fucking uniform. Recently the Navy had started phasing in new uniforms, and this is what Dean had gotten stuck with. For years he had been trained in camouflage, stealth, and secrecy. Now he had to walk around in a special uniform like a target on his back? No thank you.

Dean arrived exactly 15 minutes early to his unit's headquarters, where he was shown to a back conference room by a scared looking kid whose nametape identified him as Shurley. He had been in the unit for years now, but had never been allowed access to this particular briefing room, normally restricted for matters of the highest secrecy. Set up like a college lecture hall, rows of tables stretched across the room in a slight curve. Each row was a few steps lower than the row behind it, and at the bottom of the massive room was a single podium. The walls, the floors, the desks, and even the floors were black; in fact, the only thing Dean could find that wasn't as black as night was a massive projection screen at the front of the room, behind the podium. Making his way down the stairs, he settled on the third row from the front and centered himself on the curved desk. The uneasy feeling he had experienced when he received the phone call that morning was back in full force now. This was no ordinary mission for his commanders to roll out all the stops for.

The sound of a door opening pulled Dean from his reverie and he snapped to the position of attention when he saw Captain Singer enter, followed by Commander Campbell and a woman he didn't recognize. She was wearing a suit, so she clearly wasn't military, but he couldn't figure out why she would be there if she wasn't.

"Petty Officer Winchester. Please sit," Captain Singer said, and although his words were polite, his tone had all the warmth of a bag of frozen peas. "I'm sure you're quite curious as to why you're here right now. Commander Campbell has informed me that you are the best man for the job, so don't let me down. And with that, I will turn it over to Agent Harvelle."

On cue, the woman stepped forward with a laptop that she connected to the massive projector. She looked to be in her mid forties, with plain brown hair that fell just past her shoulders over an equally plain black pant suit. Of course she wore a fucking pant suit, Dean thought to himself. Hell would freeze over the day he saw a skirt walking around a military installation.

"Petty Officer Winchester, as Captain Singer said, my name is Special Agent Ellen Harvelle, of the Central Intelligence Agency. I'm here today because one of our operatives, one of the best actually, has gotten himself into a little bit of a bind, we'll say," the woman said as she clicked a remote, launching a powerpoint up onto the screen.

The image of a man's face appeared, magnified to take up the entire massive screen. It was clearly a generic photo, like one taken for an ID badge, not meant to be flattering, but even still Dean couldn't help the breath that caught in his chest. Clear blue eyes shown through the photo as bright as day, a messy mop of jet black hair sat on top of his head, and just the right amount of scruff adorned his jaw. Who the hell was this guy?

As if to answer Dean's unspoken question, Agent Harvelle continued talking. "This is your target, Special Agent Castiel Novak. He's been a NOC for a very long time, so he's deep… very deep," she explained. "In case you are unfamiliar, that's non-official cover, which means his actions are not technically sanctioned by the CIA or the government and we don't have any diplomatic means by which to negotiate his return. Even if we did, it most likely wouldn't turn out well for him."

"What do you mean? With all due respect, how could the CIA helping the guy end up… not helping?" Dean asked, thoroughly confused at this point.

"Patience, Petty Officer. If you think the combat operations you conduct are complicated, multiply that by a factor of a thousand and you have a clandestine operation. Not only must our agents execute their mission, they are required to lead double lives. Or, in the case of Agent Novak here, triple lives," Agent Harvelle said.

"Triple lives? So he's a double agent or something?" Dean asked.

"Or something, Petty Officer," said Agent Harvelle sadly, casting her eyes down at the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Pain. All he could feel was pain. His lungs screamed at him for oxygen, anything, just breathe, even though the passages were clogged with sticky blood and pus. He tried to will his eyes open, even just one, even though he knew they were too swollen to see for days. His skin was on fire; it felt like thousands of tiny cuts covered his body and somebody had just poured alcohol over them, which probably wasn't far from the truth. As his body began to descend into physiological panic mode, Castiel wished he would just pass out and save his body the precious energy. Even someone as skilled as he was in the art of maintaining control of every aspect of his body could only keep that up for so long, especially under duress. And being brutally tortured for days on end definitely counted as duress in Castiel's book.

His body began to seize up, muscles contracting in a desperate attempt to restore order. His stomach began to heave, retching up blood and bile. Each of his body's failed attempts caused extreme pain to shoot through Castiel's left side and a coughing fit to ensue. A broken rib for sure; he could only hope it hadn't punctured a lung as well. Blood poured down his face from his eyes and nose, which was surely broken, and spit dripped from his swollen lips.

The blows continued to rain down on his head while feet connected with his chest, abdomen, and back. Castiel could practically feel the bruises blossoming beneath each connection. With all the blood loss he had sustained already, he really didn't need more internal bleeding. He was amazed that the gaping stab wound in his thigh had managed to miss an artery. If it hadn't… the thought momentarily crossed his mind that perhaps death would have been better than this.

Desperately fighting his body's descent down into the rabbit hole, Castiel reverted back to one of his most basic survival techniques: meditation. He had been interrogated many times before by individuals of various nations and was often subjected to "enhanced interrogation techniques," as politically correct politicians liked to say. These experiences had made Castiel quite skilled in the art of control; by sinking further into or out of a meditated state, he could normalize all his bodily functions while still engaging in various levels of interaction and conversation. Today, though, he was not interested in staying involved. Today he was escaping to paradise.

Struggling through the pain, Castiel took in slow, deep breaths through the nose and tried to relax his body. In his mind, he imagined a tropical beach. He had never actually been anywhere tropical, so he based his fantasy off the picture of a beach in his favorite computer screensaver. In his mind, he strolled down the beach and let the delicate grains of sand sift through his toes, enjoying the warmth that radiated up. In one hand he held a Corona, like in the beachy-paradise commercials. In the other, he held the hand of his partner, who he loved and loved him back. The two men splashed in the cool water, letting it drench the bottoms of their shorts until they pushed each other into the waves. Back on the shore, Castiel imagined a blue-eyed, silver-haired snowshoe cat that they played with, laughing when it shook its paws at the sand and ran from the water crashing on the shore. He had always told himself that when he got out of this life, whenever that might be, that he would get a cat. But now Castiel realized that there would be no cat, there would be no perfect husband, and there would be no happily ever after. He was going to die. He wasn't going to die today, and he probably wasn't going to die tomorrow, but he was going to die, and it wouldn't come soon enough.

That was when he felt the torn fabric of his jeans pulled away from the wound on his thigh, followed quickly by the piercing of another knife into the infected flesh. A strangled cry escaped his lips and pain emanated throughout his entire body. And finally, fucking finally, he felt his mind begin to white out from the pain. As he slipped into unconsciousness, Castiel knew that at least for now he was spared.

This wasn't how he imagined his life would end, but then again, he never imagined that his life would end up being so many lives he could barely keep them straight. As a child, growing up poor to a single mother in Moscow, his only concern was whether he would have dinner at night. His father had never been in the picture, and Castiel often wondered later in life if Ana even knew who his father was. In the eight years he lived with her, she never once mentioned his father, never reminisced of happier times with him, or said anything to indicate he might have just passed away. That wasn't to say she was a bad mother, no, she tried her hardest to provide for her only child. And it was in this effort to ensure that Castiel had the best that Ana put him up for adoption. She loved him, but knew that he deserved better than growing up poor in an oppressive and violent nation. And that was how he ended up adopted by a nice American family in Cleveland, Ohio. Life in the United States provided Castiel with everything he ever could have wanted. Having experienced a much harsher life as a young child, he was able to appreciate and respect the opportunities he was given in the United States even more.

It was while he was attending college at Yale University in Connecticut that he was recruited by the CIA. Looking back on it, Castiel realized it was all too convenient for them to have coincidentally stumbled across a naïve college student filling all the requirements they were looking for. Knowing what he knew now, he suspected that they had kept tabs on children like him, looking for those who turned into successful adults with the right personality to serve the country that saved them from destitution. Because he was fluent in Russian already, he chose a dual course of study in Russian Language and Literature as well as Russian and East European Studies. And, when approached after one of his classes by his professor offering an opportunity to join an elite group of Russian enthusiasts, he never thought of saying no. He also never thought that his professor would be a recruiter for the CIA. Which is why, two years later, he was enrolled at Moscow State University under the name Dmitri Novak, an angry American expatriate who was forced out of his homeland as a child.

It was here that he was "recruited" by the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR, which was really a carefully orchestrated scheme by high ranking American agents in the Russian service to ensure Castiel's position as a Russian operative. Maintaining his cover as a Russian operative, though, meant executing missions for them on occasion, which was how he found himself in Afghanistan, pretending to be a friendly American contractor named Emmanuel Collins. He was there under the premise of finding old Soviet weapons stockpiles, leftover from the invasion in the 1980s, which the "Americans" wanted to locate, remove, and destroy. However, the true intent of the mission was to retrieve the weapons and move them back to Russia. While he disliked carrying out missions like this for Russia, he knew it was better that he did it and relayed that information to the CIA than have it happen without their knowledge.

He had been on missions like this before, and this was not his first time in Afghanistan. He never particularly liked it, considering a freaking war was going on, but he hadn't had any trouble before. For the first week, everything was fine. He worked with village leaders and a team from the Afghan National Army locating and tagging weapons stockpiles that were leftover in remote caves and caverns. However, on the eighth day, something went wrong. Normally he could sense if his identity was in question or if his cover was close to being blown. It had happened before, so he knew what to look for, and he knew how to get out of the situation. When he was awoken in the middle of the night by the village elder pointing an AK-47 at his head, he was, suffice to say, shocked. There were probably 5 or 6 people crowded into the small room where he was sleeping, surrounding the bed where he lay. Yelling, screaming, men trying to push through the group to attack him with knives, pistols, machetes, you name it.

He sat up in bed and put his hands in the air, playing innocent. If he could act like he truly didn't know what was going on for long enough, he could buy time to send a distress signal. Because out of all the shitty situations he'd ever been in, this was the most dangerous. The village elder stepped forward, shaking the weapon at him.

"You! Russian!" he exclaimed in heavy accented English.

"What? What are you talking about? I'm not Russian," Castiel replied, trying to maintain an outwardly calm appearance, even though inside his mind was racing. "You know me, my name is Emmanuel. I'm from America," he tried to explain.

"No. Your name not Emmanuel. Dmitri!" the elder cried, inciting more yelling from the men behind him.

That was when Castiel knew he was in deep shit. When he moved back to Russia he had changed his name officially to Dmitri, which was the name on record with the SVR. However, nobody ever, _ever_, referred to him as Dmitri. His acquaintances, superiors, and peers all referred to him as Misha. If someone in this village was to have overheard someone referring to him by a Russian name, it would have been Misha. The only way they would have known to call him Dmitri was if someone at SVR headquarters had given them that information. If he had been burned by the Russians, which wasn't out of the question, that could explain why he had no indication that his true identity was suspected and was ambushed so suddenly. At this point, he saw only one option. By his hip, barely covered by the thin blanket on the bed, was an emergency transponder linked to his CIA handler in the United States. He carried it with him at all times, even when working for the Russians, precisely for situations like this, because he knew the Americans were the only ones he could trust. Now he just needed a distraction so he could push the button.

"Please, please, can I just put a shirt on? My shirt- right there?" he asked, pointing to the ground next to the bed. "Please? I would be much more comfortable. Then we can figure this all out."

Begrudgingly, one of the men picked up the shirt and dropped it on the bed. In the process of grabbing the shirt and laying it out on the bed, he pressed his right hand down into the blanket where he knew the transponder was. He just prayed it would work. Sitting in the bed, desperately trying to convince an angry mob of a false identity, there were only two questions on his mind. Why would the Russians have burned him, and what the _fuck _was he going to do now?

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**Author's Note:** This is my first fic, so reviews are much appreciated! As for updating, I will post a chapter when I have the subsequent chapter finished, that way I don't leave you guys hanging.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean could only stare, open mouthed, blood boiling, as Agent Harvelle concluded her powerpoint. The _fuck_? This woman was insane! They'd lost their minds, the whole lot of them! For them to even think-

"Dean? It's Dean, right?" Agent Harvelle asked.

"Yes, Ma'am, that's correct," Dean replied, barely able to contain his anger.

"Well, Dean, here's the thing. I've been trained for over two decades in the art of reading people. And right now, you're extremely pissed," Agent Harvelle observed. Seeing Dean about to protest, she started speaking again. "Don't argue, Dean. Then you'll only be a liar. Instead, why don't you tell me what your objection is to this mission. Because I can tell you right now, if your heart isn't in it, you will fail. And when you fail, not only will Agent Novak be a casualty, but you will too."

Dean frowned. She wanted to know his objection? The better question would be, what part of this fucking stupid idea did he agree with?

"Well, Ma'am, the problem I have is sending in my team to a dangerous and volatile situation and risking their lives to save the life of a known traitor! Hell, you even said so yourself, the only reason this guy is even in Afghanistan right now is because he was working for the Russians! Why should I risk my guys to go save one of your rouge agents? If anyone should be going on this 'rescue,' it should be your guys," Dean ranted, furious at the idea of putting his men in harm's way to save a fucking traitor.

"No, Petty Officer," Captain Singer interjected, "We aren't asking you to send your team in." A look of confusion crossed Dean's face.

"We're only sending in you."

Dean jumped out of his seat, instantly raging. "What the… You've got to be kidding me! A solo mission? Are you fucking serious? That's suicide!"

"Dean, please calm down," said Agent Harvelle, shooting daggers at Captain Singer for aggravating Dean. "Let me explain to you why we can't send in another agent to conduct this rescue." She paused for a moment, allowing Dean to nod his head in consent. "I have personally been Agent Novak's handler for the past nine years, since he first joined the Agency. In this job, in the this way of life, you sometimes have to make hard decisions and do hard things that may be considered morally or ethically questionable… but it is always done with the greater good in mind. Would you rather that Agent Novak not have infiltrated this weapons supply system? So that dangerous weapons could be funneled into Russia without our knowledge? Yes, he may have given their locations to the Russians, but he has also given them to us, as well as the routes they were to be transported on so they could be intercepted before reaching their final destination."

She paused again, allowing her argument to sink in. "As you know, no matter how well an operation is planned, things can still go wrong, which obviously happened in this case. Yesterday, at approximately 1400 hours, I received a distress signal from Agent Novak, which is 0100 hours local time. The timing of the signal combined with the fact that he was not currently on an American mission is highly troubling. Never in his nine years of service has Agent Novak activated his transponder, but in order for him to have chosen to do so, his situation must be very serious."

"That still doesn't explain why you need me to do this, though," Dean interjected.

"Right. Of course, there is no way of knowing exactly what happened, but we have developed a theory on the most likely situation. Somehow, Agent Novak's cover as an American in Afghanistan was suddenly and unpredictably compromised. He chose not to contact the SVR for assistance, thus outing himself to them as a double agent. However, he wouldn't have done this if he hadn't already suspected the Russians of burning him, most likely because of his sudden outing. Now for where you come in. Agent Novak's cover was as close to perfect as it can get; there is no way the SVR could have discovered his true identity on their own."

"Wait a minute… Are you saying that someone… Somebody in the CIA gave him up?" Dean asked, the realization making his blood run cold. Didn't that kind of shit only happen in the movies?

"That is the theory we are currently operating on, Petty Officer. Which is exactly why I won't send in another agent. Right now, I don't trust anyone in the Agency other than myself, which is why I chose to bring in an outsider," explained Agent Harvelle.

Suddenly Dean felt guilty for ever not wanting to help the guy. Sure, he may have done some bad shit in his time, but when the shit hit the fan, he showed where his true loyalty lay. And if there was one thing that was ingrained in Dean from his first day of basic training, it was loyalty. You didn't give up, especially on each other. And nobody ever, _ever_, got left behind. Dean would be damned if today was the day he broke that promise.

"Alright, Ma'am, what do I have to do?" Dean asked, fully in the game now.

"Here's the thing, Petty Officer Winchester," Captain Singer said, finally breaking his silence. "Because Agent Novak's actions were not sanctioned by the government, any rescue mission sent for him cannot be sanctioned either. Especially for someone regarded as, I believe you said, a 'known traitor.' Agent Harvelle is an old friend of mine, so I offered to find her a solution as a favor. As such, there is nothing saying that you must go on this mission. I cannot order you to; nobody can. This is something that you must elect to do on your own; nobody will hold it against you if you choose not to."

"I won't sugar coat it, Petty Officer, it won't be easy and will most certainly be dangerous. If anything were to happen, orchestrating a second rescue mission would be nearly impossible. For all intents and purposes, you would be alone," warned Agent Harvelle.

None of that mattered to Dean though; he had already made up his mind. He had never been the guy who sat back on the sidelines, especially when someone was in trouble. He was already mentally running through a list of equipment and weapons he would need when he said, "With all due respect Ma'am, let's shut the fuck up and go get your guy."

A huge smile broke out across Agent Harvelle's face.

By the time he got on the plane, 24 hours had passed since the distress signal was received. Dean didn't need to be told that time was of the essence. He knew that the total flight time in an airplane to Afghanistan from San Diego was around 16 hours, which would be followed by a short helicopter flight to his assembly area, from which point he would ruck to the objective. He hoped that this Novak guy was as good as they said and could withstand 48 hours at the will of his captors. He was sure that the scene awaiting him would be messy; it was much worse to be thought a Russian than an American due to the war crimes committed during the war with the Soviets during the 1980s. If Novak could just hold out a little bit longer, Dean hoped he could get there in time.

His plane landed in Kabul, the capital city in the northeast, near the border of Pakistan. A Blackhawk helicopter flew him about 100 miles north, into a dense mountain range. The chopper dropped him about 10 miles from the objective so as not to reveal his arrival. After a final check of his radio and communications equipment, he fast-roped down from the chopper and watched it fly away. Dean pulled out his GPS to confirm his distance and direction and looked out across the vast mountain range. Mentally he cursed the rough terrain; it looked like he was in for a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **So it seems that some of you are a bit squeamish about blood, violence, and the likes. Unfortunately, Dean taking care of Castiel's injuries is going to play a big part in the future (and this is a story about the military, violence kinda comes with the territory), so hopefully it doesn't bother you too much. You've been warned!

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For anyone else, carrying an 80 pound rucksack over 10 miles of steep mountains in the span of two and a half hours, during the dead of night no less, would have been a daunting task, but not to Dean. The attitude of the military was generally to make training as fucking hard as possible so that way the real thing would always seem easier. For that Dean was grateful, especially now. Normally a 10 mile ruck was nothing; he regularly covered much longer distances in training. Unfortunately, San Diego was not exactly mountainous, so the backs of his heels rubbed painfully on the backs of his boots as he walked on the hills. He was also normally with his guys, who he could bullshit with over the radio. Now he walked in painful silence, filled with anticipation for what lay ahead.

The plan itself was straightforward. Get to the village, get Agent Novak, and make it back to the assembly area. Once at the assembly area, they would be evacuated back to Kabul. However, because this mission had been pulled together in such as rush, most of the details were missing. There had been no recon, so Dean didn't know what the village looked like, how many people there were, or where Agent Novak was being held. They didn't know what kind of physical condition he was in, or if he was even alive. This meant that a significant amount of the weight in Dean's pack was from medical supplies, just in case.

As Dean crested yet another hill, he saw a small village nested into the foothills a few hundred yards ahead. It was definitely small, which worked in Dean's favor. Most of the buildings were only one story and looked like homes. Only a few were still illuminated this late at night- those were the ones Dean had his eye on. He would need to get a closer look in order to figure out where exactly Agent Novak was, and he couldn't bring his bulky rucksack with him. Dean began to backtrack, looking for a good location to stash the rucksack.

After rescuing Agent Novak, he needed somewhere to bring him to treat any immediate medical emergencies before heading back to the assembly area. He needed to put distance between this rally point and the objective in case anyone came looking for them; the more distance, the less likely they were to be found. About a half mile south of the village, Dean found a small depression behind a large tree. It had a wide enough diameter to completely hide the silhouette of a person and the depression formed between its roots was big enough to stash the rucksack without revealing its presence.

After ditching his ruck and keeping only mission essential equipment, Dean headed back toward the village. Rather than risk silhouetting himself on the ridgeline, he moved around to the side of the hill then low crawled through thin vegetation looking for cover. About halfway down the hill was a large boulder which would provide good cover for an observation period. The only problem was the distance; it was probably 100 yards away, and low crawling through the harsh rocks of the mountainside was going to be a bitch. Damn it, why did he always get stuck with the shitty jobs? With a sigh, he lay back down, shoved his face into the rocky dirt, and began to crawl. He could feel small nicks and cuts on his face from the sharp leaves and gravel he was dragging his face through. Sure, he'd been told he was ruggedly handsome in the past, but did he really need to look more rugged?

When Dean finally reached the boulder, his face felt like he'd shaved with sandpaper and he was sure there would be bruises on his elbows and knees. With all the money the military had, Dean thought they should have been able to invent knee and elbow pads that weren't constantly slipping down. Even though those sucked, he did get some pretty high speed equipment, like the night vision goggles he slipped on, rolling to the side of the boulder.

He was right in his earlier assumption that most of the buildings were houses. The town was laid out in an even grid, with the small homes on the side backing up into the foothills and the main commercial section of the village in a more exposed area. There were open fields on all sides, presumably used for agriculture. Dean hoped he wouldn't encounter any cows. Ugh. Of the four multistory buildings in the village, two had lights on inside and three homes had lights on. For a sleepy town like this, far removed from the fighting elsewhere in the country, it seemed unusual for there to be so much nighttime activity.

Unusual, indeed, Dean thought as a man holding an AK-47 rounded the corner of one of the buildings. He looked from side to side, scanning through the darkness where Dean hid, before he continued his patrol on another side of the building. Cha-ching, Dean thought, we have a winner. There wouldn't be an armed guard patrolling the perimeter of a building in a random village like this if they didn't have a prized commodity inside. Dean settled into a more comfortable position and began watching, waiting.

For what felt like the longest time according to Dean, or 35 minutes according to Dean's watch, a whole lot of nothing happened. The guard continued to make his rounds in a counterclockwise direction, with each rotation taking just under a minute and a half. Dean could practically count the man's footsteps in his head, he was so predictable. Suddenly, two men emerged from double doors on the side of the building facing Dean. Lucky son of a bitch, he smirked to himself. The two men, who appeared to be armed with a machete and a pistol, stopped briefly to speak with the man on patrol. They gestured out into the darkness and then back into the building before they took off toward town.

At that point it became more difficult to track them, as buildings and shadows obscured the two men who, _of_ _fucking course _Dean thought to himself, split up and went separate directions. He watched until one of the men disappeared into one of the homes with lights on. Shortly after, the lights in that house went dark. On the other side of the village, he saw the same pattern repeated with the other man. That left only one house with a light on, which mean one of two things. The first option was that the remaining house belonged to the guard, in which case he only had to get through one person. The second, and much less desirable option, was that the house belonged to a second individual who remained inside the building guarding the prisoner.

Dean knew that with his luck, it would be fucking option two, but a guy could dream, right? After waiting another half hour with no movement, Dean rose from his position to sit behind the boulder. His plan was to sneak along the hillside just behind the tree line until he got behind the village. Approaching through the other three sides was out of the question; he'd be seen instantly in an open field. He hoped to make his way straight through the town to the building holding Agent Novak. Before leaving, Dean gave his equipment one last check. He tightened his knee pads, elbow pads, and vest; adjusted the holster of his knife on his left leg and the holster of his pistol on his right leg; cinched the straps on his helmet tight; and loaded his pistol as well as his rifle before switching them both onto fire. He holstered the pistol, but he carried his rifle.

As quickly and quietly as possible, Dean crouched and ran a few yards to get behind the tree line. It was winter, so dead foliage littered the ground, crunching slightly with every step. He just hoped he was too far away for anyone to hear. Ducking behind trees as he moved, Dean circled around the village on the hillside until he was directly behind the city. With one last deep breath he stepped out of the trees and sprinted down the hill to cover behind one of the houses.

Dean silently thanked the guard for being so damn predictable because it made his approach infinitely easier. For over a minute at a time, Dean could approach the building without fear of being detected. This didn't mean he got careless though, he still maintained a stealthy, tactical approach, but just in a much faster timeframe. Dean ducked behind the neighboring building and waited for the guard to pass and move to the rear of the building. As soon as he did, Dean quickly darted out and ran to the opposite side of the building, intending to intercept the guard as he rounded the corner.

Just as Dean suspected, the man was completely unprepared to be ambushed. He even dropped his rifle onto the hard concrete when Dean jumped him and placed him in a chokehold. With one arm on the man's neck and the other covering his mouth, Dean couldn't stop the rifle from falling and clattering like a shattered china plate. As the man in his arms began to still, Dean cursed his luck when he heard footsteps pounding inside. Of course this fool wasn't alone, Dean grumbled.

This guy would be harder to take down since he suspected something was wrong, but Dean got the impression they weren't exactly trained warriors. Through a window he glimpsed an AK-47 in the man's grasp as he descended from a flight of stairs. So he was armed, too. Great. Nothing Dean couldn't handle though, especially when the fool came barreling through the doorway Dean was pressed against. As soon as he emerged from the building, Dean greeted the man with the butt of his rifle to the head. Knocked out, the man crumpled to the ground.

Stepping over the second enemy, Dean entered the house, wary of anyone who might still be inside. He quickly scaled the stairs from which the second man had descended and found himself in a small landing surrounded by four doors. The first two he opened revealed ordinary stock rooms for the shop downstairs but when he opened the third door he was greeted by a gruesome sight.

The first thing that hit him was the sight of blood, which normally wouldn't have affected him at all, but there was fucking blood _everywhere_. It was splattered on the walls and the ceiling; there were several dried pools on the floor, and an ever larger pool that was still wet beneath the suspended form of a person.

"Novak!" Dean hissed in a loud whisper. When there was no response, he began to approach slowly.

"Novak?" Dean tried again, praying the man was still alive.

Bile and fear began to rise in Dean's throat as he got closer and could see the full extent of the man's injuries. His hands were cuffed together and the cuffs were hooked to a chain that hung from the ceiling. The chain wasn't so short that he was forced to stand, but it wasn't long enough for his knees to touch the ground. The guy had obviously passed out because there was no way someone would be in his position while conscious.

His head was dropped to his chest and his torso hung limply suspended in the air by his arms, which were cruelly yanked behind his head by the chain. Supporting the whole weight of the man's body in that way, Dean suspected his shoulders were close to dislocating. Since the chain was too short for the man's knees to touch the ground, only his feet were on the ground, but they weren't doing much good as the soles of his bare feet pointed up. His knees bent slightly in the air as the man hung forward.

Blood was fucking _everywhere_, the guy's face, chest, back, legs, feet… Dean struggled to find somewhere on his body that didn't look like it had been beaten to within an inch of life.

"Novak? Novak? Is that you? God, please wake up… please be ok," Dean begged, gently lifting up the man's face.

With no response, Dean set to work freeing him. It didn't matter if he was conscious or not when he got rescued, all that mattered was making it out, and every second more that Dean sat in that building was a second closer they were to getting caught. Dean pulled out a pair of wire cutters from a pocket in his vest and snapped the connection between the handcuffs and the chain.

With an unceremonious thud, the man's body hit the floor, his head landing in the puddle of blood. Quickly Dean cut the handcuffs off and hoisted the man over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. From the top of the stairs, Dean could see that the man he knocked out with his rifle earlier had gotten up. He was leaning against the wall and clearly disoriented, but when he saw Dean on the stairs he lunged forward and started screaming.

Dean knew he had to get out _now_. Noise meant more people would be coming, people who weren't weighed down by an unconscious person on their shoulders. The screaming continued as Dean pointed his rifle threateningly at the man; he wouldn't shoot first, but if you did fire upon him… it was safe to say that you were going to have a bad day. And a bad day it would be as the first shot rang out, hitting the back wall over Dean's right shoulder. His lightning reflexes and ingrained training allowed Dean to aim and fire his rifle without even thinking about it.

The bullet hit the man in the thigh. It wasn't lethal and it would stop him from following Dean out of the building. By now lights were turning on in the houses in the village. Running back to the tree line through the village was out of the question now; he would have to make a dash for it through the open field. Dean barreled through the open door of the shop, crossed the road, and began sprinting as fast as he could possibly go through the field.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** If you have not already seen it, I highly recommend watching the Oscar-nominated film _Restrepo _about the fight in Korengal Valley; if you have a Netflix account it is available for viewing online. Not only is it an incredible story of the heroism and sacrifice of our soldiers ('Merica, fuck yeah!), you can also see the type of terrain that I _try_ to describe below.

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Dean knew even without looking back that people were following him, loading their rifles and taking aim. He heard people yelling in a language that he didn't understand and the unmistakable clicks of magazines being slammed into rifles. Time was running out for him to get behind some sort of cover or concealment; he needed to get behind the tree line, fast. Dean was about halfway across the field when the first shot rang out. Luckily whoever had fired it was obviously not very experienced with weapons because it missed him by a mile.

Dean knew he was in a very bad, very dangerous situation. His heart was racing and his legs pumped harder than ever, fueled by the release of adrenaline when the first shot rang out. In between thoughts of _shit, shit, shit_ and _fucking hell_, Dean imagined that his current situation must have looked like a bad Hollywood war movie, protagonist stumbling and weighed down by his fallen comrade while being chased by an angry mob. Under different circumstances, Dean might have laughed, but right now he was too concerned with staying alive.

Normally he would have been able to make it to the tree line in less than a minute, but the added weight was making him significantly slower. In that moment, Dean thanked anyone who had ever made him do interval training or practice the buddy carry. Another shot rang out, this time on the other side, but much closer. The trees could not come fast enough, not only for him, but for the man on his shoulders.

Another shot. Another surge of adrenaline. The trees were only about 50 yards away when Dean spared a look backwards, only to discover the crowd was gaining on him. Hopefully using the trees to conceal his movement, he would be able to evade the men chasing him. As he finally entered the forest another shot whizzed by, nearly missing him. It was suddenly nearly impossible to see anything as all light from the village was blocked by the dense vegetation. Cursing, Dean pulled down his night vision goggles and began to scan the forest for the best route to take.

The only way to go was uphill, so Dean began jogging up, hoping that when he reached the crest of the hill he would be able to find a better direction to take. The night vision helped, but it was still slow going dodging trees and stumbling through underbrush, especially with another person on his shoulders, which greatly affected Dean's center of gravity. Once he reached the top of the ridgeline, Dean could see a valley stretched before him to the south, low lying foothills to the west, and more steep, rocky mountains to the east.

The natural tendency of humans was the drift downhill. The men chasing him would likely assume that he chose to run downhill, especially carrying another person. Even if they did decide to look for him up in the mountains, he would be much more difficult to find and their search would eventually begin to drift back downhill. Turning to the east, Dean began sprinting uphill again.

By now Dean's legs were getting exhausted, his back and shoulders ached from the awkward weight on them, and his feet protested the repeated climbing of hills. But he had to keep moving; he had to put distance between himself and his pursuers while still gaining elevation. He travelled along the mountainside as quickly as he could, but it was extremely difficult to traverse. With each step he took, the rock under his feet would crumble and slip down the steep slope. Huge boulders riddled his path, forcing Dean to either climb over them or slip around.

After about 20 minutes, he no longer heard any movement or voices in the mountains, but he kept moving for long afterward. It took him about another hour, although he couldn't be sure, before he decided to look for a hiding spot. It was common knowledge that the mountains were home to many caves, if only Dean could find one.

It was almost an hour later that Dean finally found a cave, although completely by accident. He was rounding a corner on a particularly steep face of another mountain, pressed against a solid rock wall to keep his balance. As he inched around a sharp corner, Dean abruptly fell forward, the rock wall suddenly gone. In the brief moment he was falling, Dean imagined himself plummeting to his death, the rescue of Agent Novak gone awry, their bodies certain to never be found.

But then his head and chest hit solid ground about thigh high and Dean was momentarily relieved… until Novak's body rolled off his shoulders and smashed his face even further into the ground. Between this incident and the low crawling earlier, Dean was certain his face would look like shit for weeks.

He shoved Novak forward and pulled his head out from under the man's stomach. Had the man been conscious, Dean would have blushed; he resolved never to tell the man about this incident. Switching on his red lens flashlight, Dean looked around the landing he had fallen into.

It was a lucky find, really, as the opening Dean had so gracefully fallen into was about as wide as a doorway and only slightly taller. Dean looked up into the space that Novak had rolled into. Behind the rock face, the small opening expanded into a fairly good sized cave. It was tall enough to stand in and had plenty of room to lie down; it reminded Dean of the size of his bedroom back in San Diego.

Dean was startled by a sudden moaning coming from his unconscious counterpart, who was currently lying on his stomach. Dean rolled him over and looked at his swollen, bruised face which was still covered with blood from the puddle he had fallen into earlier. To be honest, Dean hadn't really noticed before, considering the life or death situation they were in, but he didn't think it was right.

In one of the pouches on Dean's vest was a small first aid pouch, which he opened and removed a wet towelette from. He carefully wiped the dried blood off of the man's face, noting the injuries he came across. Honestly, while the guy's face looked terrible, from a medical perspective Dean could tell it wasn't too serious, just the result of a bad beating. Maybe a broken nose, but nothing more.

Dean pulled a picture of Agent Novak out of one of his pockets and held it next to the man's face. It was the same picture that Agent Harvelle had shown at the beginning of her powerpoint, the one that made Novak's eyes look like something out of a fucking Crayola box. Sure the guy had wild black hair and looked pale enough to be Novak, but he had also clearly suffered extreme blood loss. And lots of guys had permanent sex hair… right? Dean briefly wondered if Novak ever had sex with men before blushing deeply and scolding himself. This was serious, and no time to be imagining his target's sex life!

It was hard to confirm definitively that he had the right guy, until suddenly the man's eyes opened. Dean knew immediately that he had the right guy by the bright, sparkling blue that emerged. In the split second they locked eye contact, Dean thought he had never seen anything so beautiful before.

"_Fuuuuuuck_!" the man groaned, shutting his eyes and slamming his head backwards, obviously in pain.

"Novak? Agent Novak?" Dean asked as he steadied the man's head between his hands.

"Cas," he replied through clenched teeth. At Dean's look of confusion, he clarified.

"My name, Castiel. Call me Cas," he said before falling into unconsciousness once again.

Cas, Dean thought to himself; so the sexy spy had a sexy name, go figure. Even though Dean knew for sure he had the right guy, he still wasn't relieved. The man was badly injured and all his supplies were in the rucksack he had hidden before entering the village, which had to be at least five miles from his current location, although Dean didn't know for sure.

But he was certainly faced with a dilemma now, a dilemma with life or death consequences. Dean knew that he needed to go get his ruck; that was nonnegotiable. Not only did it contain medical and survival supplies that would ensure both Dean and Cas could withstand the next few days, it also had many sensitive items. Dean knew from his years in the military that sensitive and classified items _had_to come back with him; that these supplies fall into enemy hands was not an option. So Dean knew that he had to go find it, it was only a question of when.

Under any other circumstance, he would never have considered leaving his equipment unattended for any longer than absolutely necessary, but his current situation was different. Dean didn't want to leave his new companion alone, which Dean told himself had nothing, _nothing_, to do with the small pangs of attraction he was beginning to feel. Nothing at all.

There was a logical reason, first and foremost being that Dean wasn't about to leave his comrade unconscious and undefended for an undetermined amount of time. Not only could he be discovered and attacked while defenseless, he could awaken while Dean was gone and wander off, getting into even deeper shit. No, Dean wasn't leaving him alone, at least not now.

Even once he got his rucksack, Dean knew that they wouldn't be able to move for at least a few days. As much as he liked to think of himself as a stud, Dean could admit that he wouldn't be able to carry both Novak and his pack at the same time. Novak looked like he had been beaten to within an inch of his life; there was no way that he would be able to hike around rocky terrain at this elevation.

The medical and survival supplies would be nice, Dean imagined, especially in the mountains during a cold Afghan winter. The temperature was probably near freezing and Novak had lost a lot of blood which meant he was especially susceptible to hypothermia.

Dean resolved that he would stay with Novak until he awoke, then go looking for the supplies once he was sure the other man could defend himself. In the meantime, he decided to examine Novak's wounds to determine the severity of his injuries. Just as he was trained, Dean started at the head and moved systematically down Novak's body to make sure he didn't miss anything.

Looking past the bruises covering most of Novak's face, Dean found a few cuts and scrapes on his chin, nose, and forehead, which he carefully applied an antibiotic ointment and bandages to. The guy would probably feel ridiculous when he woke up and realized he had a patchwork of Band-Aids covering his face, but that was alright, he would get over it.

Next, Dean moved on to his chest. Dean honestly couldn't tell what color the shirt had started as- blue, maybe? It was covered with dried blood and dirt now, lending it a rusty brown shade. At any rate, it was damp and ripped, which meant it was just making Novak colder than he needed to be. Lacking any blankets or additional clothing, Dean unzipped his camouflaged long-sleeve shirt and shucked it off. He ripped off the remnants of Novak's shirt and carefully dressed the agent in his own.

Though much of his torso was bruised as well, Dean could tell the guy was fit; not built like a body builder or lanky like a marathon runner, he was fit enough that you couldn't tell it just from looking at him but he could still kick your ass. Dean wondered what his body would look like when he was healed... which was _totally inappropriate_! Dean didn't know what had gotten into him lately, this was his fucking target, not a love interest!

"Hold it together, Winchester," he mumbled to himself before continuing his inspection.

As he examined Novak's hands, Dean could see without a doubt that the guy didn't go down easy. Novak's wrists were rubbed raw around where the handcuffs had been, evidence of a futile attempt to slip them. His knuckles were bloody, but they weren't cut, which meant the blood wasn't his own. Dean smiled; looks like Novak, er, Cas, was kind of a badass, he thought. He would like to see Cas in action sometime.

Dean skirted around a thorough examination of his companion's lower half. Judging by his stupid brain's reactions to Cas already, he didn't want to do anything to fuel the fire, so he settled for patting down his legs, checking for breaks. There was a gaping wound on his upper right thigh which, if it wasn't infected already, would be soon. Once again, Dean longed for his medical supplies. There wasn't much Dean could do but wipe the wound clean, pack it with a shit ton of antibiotic ointment, and cover it with a small square of gauze.

Suddenly an icy wind whipped into the cave, reminding him of just how grave the situation was. Without a blanket or sleeping bag, Dean knew that their best bet was to use body heat to keep each other warm. He backed up to the far wall, as far from the entrance as possible, and pulled Cas to his chest so that he was between Dean's legs, almost full body weight on Dean's chest.

Certainly he would understand it was purely for survival when he woke up, right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Sooo sorry I didn't update yesterday! Family has come to visit and I don't think they'd appreciate me sitting at the computer all day. I hope to update at least once more this week, maybe twice. Enjoy the holidays, spend time with your loved ones, and pretty please review! :)

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Dean did _not_ do the cold. He was born in Kansas and could only remember how much he hated the cold and the snow there. San Diego was much more his style, sunny and warm all year round. As great as San Diego was, it did a terrible job of acclimating him to the freezing nights of an Afghan winter.

He sat up, keeping watch the whole night while Cas slept propped against his chest, wearing his fucking shirt. Dean, meanwhile, had only a thin short-sleeved undershirt to keep him warm. At first Dean had been embarrassed about snuggling (because there was really nothing else to call it) with Cas because Dean Winchester did _not_ fucking snuggle! After just a few hours, though, Dean had embraced the suck and literally embraced his companion, trying to keep them as close as possible to conserve warmth.

Nearly 12 hours had passed and Cas had yet to awaken, which was concerning to Dean. He'd known far too many guys who had gone overseas and been involved in an accident, usually an IED attack, and suffered a traumatic brain injury. Maybe something similar had happened to Cas? Dean decided to give Cas another hour before he was going to wake him up, like it or not. Luckily, Dean wouldn't have to wait long.

Cas soon began to stir, quietly moaning as he regained consciousness. Apparently sleeping through the night hadn't helped the man's pain at all, as he started thrashing his head from side to side just like the night before. Quickly Dean slid out from underneath Cas and laid him down on his back.

"Hey, uh… Cas? Can you hear me, man?" Dean asked. Blue eyes immediately opened wide and locked onto his, but Cas didn't speak.

"Um, Cas? Are you alright?" Dean tried again. Still there was not response, and Dean began to seriously worry about the possibility of brain damage.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck…" Dean muttered under his breath, closing his eyes and trying as hard as he could to remember what to do in a case of suspected brain damage. "God _damn it_! Please don't have brain damage, please don't have brain damage…" Dean repeated, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

Cas, still unblinking, narrowed his eyes slightly and tilted his head sideways, taking in the spectacle of Dean mumbling to himself.

"I may have a slight concussion, but I do not believe I have suffered any brain trauma," Cas said slowly.

Dean immediately opened his eyes and stared at him, entranced by the deep, gravelly voice that came from such a light and lithe man. He must have looked like a complete idiot, Dean realized, because the corners of Cas' lips turned up slightly when he spoke again.

"I do not believe we have been properly introduced yet, although you seem to know very well who I am," Cas said.

Dean mentally smacked himself; what had he been thinking, not ever telling the guy who he was? Hell, Cas could think he was a bad guy from any number of other countries for all he knew. Considering what he knew about the guy's profession, it wouldn't surprise him if Cas did suspect Dean of wanting to harm him.

"I can only assume, because you have not tortured or killed me yet, that you are," Cas paused slightly for dramatic effect, the bastard, "my rescue party."

Geez, this guy made him sound like some knight in shining armor; that just wouldn't do. As Dean continued his mental reprimand, which had become much more frequent since the start of this mission, Cas pulled himself up into a sitting position against the side of the cave.

"Petty Officer First Class Dean Winchester, United States Navy SEALs," Dean said, extending his hand toward Cas. Cas graciously accepted his handshake with, Dean noted, a nice, firm grip…

Instead of saying anything further, Cas tilted his head and closed his eyes, as if processing this information took a lot of work. Dean was becoming convinced that if the guy wasn't crazy, he must be some serious introspective-thinker type, the kind who wrote books and newspaper editorials. Dean sat silently as he watched an array of expressions cross his companion's face; first deep thought and then confusion before settling on concern. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Dean.

"You know, it is highly unusual that the Agency would choose to send in a Navy SEAL, all by himself, rather than another agent. You work in teams. We work alone. You like to run your mouths. We like to keep our problems _ours_," Cas said. It was a statement, but there was no hiding the hidden question behind the words, _why are you here?_

Dean, of course, knew the answer to this, that the CIA suspected one of their own had betrayed Cas, but he didn't know what to say. Or if he should say anything. The guy was injured and vulnerable and Dean didn't want him getting crazy or anything. So Dean, great orator that he was, settled for the eloquent, "Oh, um, yeah. I thought it was weird too," as a response.

Cas' one quirked eyebrow in response told Dean he didn't buy a word Dean was saying, but he wasn't going to push it. Dean was grateful for the out and quickly changed the subject.

"So, you're hurt pretty bad," he commented.

Not missing a beat, Cas shot back, "You are pretty unprepared." He accentuated his point with a deliberate sweep of his blue eyes around the cave, which was now glaringly empty. Leave it to a spy to notice, despite the pain he must undoubtedly have been in, the fact that Dean was missing his rucksack.

"Yeah… About that…" Dean started. He explained to Cas the events of the last 24 hours; how he had hidden the rucksack close to the village, but was unable to retrieve it after rescuing Cas and had decided to find a hiding place for themselves instead. "So I need to go get it. You can't go anywhere until you heal at least a little, and the longer we sit here the more likely we are to be discovered, which means I need to get it as soon as possible to start treating you. I'll have to leave you here, but I'll give you my pistol so you can defend yourself."

Cas appeared to think it over for a while, his jaw set and lips pursed. It was obvious he didn't like the plan and Dean was certain he would argue with it. He was prepared to launch into another round of reasons why it was necessary when Cas spoke.

"It is a dangerous and reckless plan, but I do not see that we have any other choice. If you leave immediately, I believe you will be able to return only slightly after night has fallen," he said. "I will take your pistol," he added quickly, holding his hand out. "That will be more than enough."

Dean handed over the pistol and the two extra magazines held in his vest. Cas seemed more than familiar with how to handle the weapon, which both terrified Dean and turned him on.

"So, yeah. Um…" Dean struggled at the extremely awkward goodbye. All he could think to do was pull out his extra canteen of water and hand it to Cas. "Make sure you drink that," he said before sliding out the entrance to the cave.

"Be safe, Petty Officer Winchester," was Cas' farewell remark. What struck Dean was the way Cas said it; not as a message of good luck, but as a command.

Dean had a lot of time on his trek across the mountains to think about Cas and his comments. It occurred to Dean that even though Cas would never admit it, he was scared. Dean was his only chance for survival, and here he was, going back to the village where every adult male wanted his head on a stick. But after all Cas had done for his country, there was no way Dean was going to let him down.

Dean's assessment of Cas wasn't very far off the mark; he was unaccustomed to feeling helpless and being the one looked after. When he woke up he was disoriented and confused; the last clear memory he had was of being tortured by the villagers. After that, he had lapsed in and out of consciousness, capturing small clues to what was going on. He remembered darkness, being jostled around, and the color green, but above all, he remembered pain.

It was the pain that ultimately woke him up, but as soon as he realized there was another person present he shut down all his body's responses and looked around. It took all of two seconds to realize why he'd been imagining the color green when he found green eyes boring into his. Sure, the man they belonged to was gorgeous, but it was hard to win Cas' trust, especially in light of recent events. It was only when the stranger was on the verge of hysterics over the possibility of brain trauma that Cas could safely say the man was invested in his health and safety.

After a brief explanation, it was clear that they were in a random cave on a random mountain because of the SEAL's botched rescue mission. Cas was certainly appreciative, but he disliked the limitations placed on members of the military due to international law. If it had been up to any agent, himself included, there wouldn't have been anyone able to signal the rest of the village. In and out, quick and easy. But Cas found Winchester's morals, as well as his dedication to treating Cas' injuries, strangely endearing, especially on such a skilled warrior.

However much Cas enjoyed his company, he was glad when Winchester left. The supplies in the abandoned ruck were absolutely necessary and Cas was in excruciating pain, so much so that it was difficult to hide from Winchester. He could only hope that nothing would happen to his companion; Winchester was his only hope, and all he could do was wait.


End file.
